


Mine

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, possessive Paul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6363661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the help of an unidentified, opportunistic party-goer, Paul realises what he thinks about John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of an old fic which first appeared in the lj comm johnherrtpaul.

He wandered through the party, drink in hand, passing from one group to the next, a smile, a wink, a nod, a whisper in an ear here, a leer down a top there, but it was all automatic. His brain was elsewhere, processing the last twenty-four hours. 

It had started out normally enough, he and John working late in the studio, John grumbling that the song was good enough but wanting to push the boundaries and needing Paul's input. Paul had learned to ignore John's grumbling over the years, had come to understand that it was more for show than anything else. John was proud of what they accomplished in the studio and knew that Paul's insistent perfectionism was responsible for at least part of it. 

Then they'd gone out for a pint before going home. Intended to be just a quick half it had turned into a long session. They both had a lot on their minds these days, John unhappier than usual with Cynthia, Paul not sure about the direction things were going with Jane, Brian's death throwing everything into confusion. It felt good to just sit and drink, singing along to the jukebox, slagging off the girl singer who was trying to sound like Pet Clark and failing miserably. 

They'd stumbled out at closing time, arms around each other's shoulders, more as a show of physical support than one of solidarity, singing "We'll Meet Again" at the top of their lungs, hideously, hilariously off-key. They'd ended up in a parkette somewhere on the way to Paul's house, sprawled across a bench shouting insults at couples going by. Eventually the streets had emptied and they'd begun to sober up, at which point they began to really talk. It had been years since they'd been able to share so openly and honestly, but when John had told Paul that he'd had more intimate moments with him than he'd ever had with his wife, Paul knew exactly what he was talking about. 

By the time the sun rose John was lying with his head in Paul's lap, trying to figure out when everything in his life had gone so wrong, nodding enthusiastically when Paul suggested the pair of them should just fuck off together and leave Jane and Cyn to get on with it without them. 

When they'd finally hauled themselves up off the bench to go their separate ways they'd hugged, both really happy, though neither entirely sure just why.

So now Paul found himself at this party with all the elements that he required for a good time - pretty women, good booze, men who were able to talk intelligently about art - yet somehow always aware of where John was in the room. He didn't really know what last night had meant, but his friendship with John seemed to have been slipping away recently and he was hopeful that last night might have made things much better than they had been.

Then he saw it. A painter they both knew, an old friend of Brian's, slinging his arm around John's shoulder and whispering something in John's ear, something obscene based on the look John had given him. Paul's chest tightened and he had to bite his lip to keep from voicing his protest.

John was his. His. And everybody else could just fuck the hell off and leave them alone.

Fortunately, the chair behind him was empty as his knees buckled and he sat down suddenly. He had no idea where that burst had come from, but it had hit him like a physical blow to the chest. 

Sure, he and John had been having a difficult time lately. Yes, it was bothering him. Yes, John's relationship with George seemed to be on the upswing and Paul knew he was feeling a little jealous about that. But possessive about John and another person? Where the hell had that come from?

Unless he hadn't ever really moved past that night in Key West. They'd been drunk, maudlin, lonely. The kiss had seemed like a natural progression once they'd confessed their love for each other. But they'd never talked about it again, and the next morning they'd even had trouble meeting each other's eyes. And Paul had seen John with all kinds of people since then and he'd never been upset about it.

Check that. He'd seen John with all kinds of _women_ since then. Not blokes. As far as he knew, he was the only man John had ever kissed. He didn't think even Brian had managed that in Spain. 

Well now. This was interesting. And what was he supposed to do with the information that apparently he felt that he was the only man who had a right to John Lennon's body? The only thing possible, really. Get stinking drunk.

He was returning from his third trip to the bar with a fresh drink when he saw John putting on his jacket, getting ready to leave. Well, that was all right then. No need to worry. He could put this night behind him. Then he saw who John was leaving with. He downed his drink and followed.

Outside the party, John and that painter getting into a car. Paul pushed past and took the man's place, smiling at John as he closed the door in the indignant face of the other.

"Paul? What the fuck are you doing?"

Paul looked at him unspeaking for a moment, then reached over and took John's face in his hands, kissing him. There was a surprised noise from John, then silence as he began to return the kiss.

Paul pulled back and answered John, "Lennon and fucking McCartney, John. Any experimenting you want to do, you do it with me." Then he leaned forward and knocked on the glass blocking them off from the driver, giving the address of a flat he kept for times when he wanted privacy from Jane. When he leaned back he grinned at John and put his hand on John's thigh.

John sputtered, "Jesus, Macca, how much have you had to drink?'

"Just enough, John. Just enough to know that I've wanted you for a long fucking time and seeing as how you're clearly in the mood to step out on Cyn, I'd say this is as good a time as any to find out just exactly how you sound when I've got your prick in my mouth."

John stammered and protested and said he wasn't having any of it, but when Paul moved his hand over John's cock and squeezed John moaned briefly and shifted his hips to make everything a little easier.

Before they got out of the car at Paul's flat they'd had to zip and button and tuck everything back into place so that nobody would see the state they were in, and when Paul ushered John into the flat John turned and made sure the door was securely locked before he pulled Paul against him.

Then it was up against the wall and hands and teeth and tongues and gasps and moans and trousers down around ankles and buttons flying from shirts and by the time Paul was bent over John on the bed, tongue running up his spine and hands holding his hips still, they were both damn near incoherent.

Not completely, though. Paul still had enough presence of mind to lean over John, breath hot in his ear, and whisper "Mine" as he entered him. And when they were done, when they were collapsed together on the bed, he repeated the word, John reaching over and stroking Paul's face with his hand, nodding acquiescence.


End file.
